


Different Houses

by sansasparky



Series: Different Houses [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansasparky/pseuds/sansasparky
Summary: Sandor could remember every interaction he had ever had with Sansa Stark, and there wasn’t a single one in which he hadn’t behaved like a complete and utter arsehole.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking here since 2014 so I thought I might as well stop hoarding my fic and actually engage with my fellow nerds. What's crackalackin my guys? 
> 
> This story is the result of me wanting to write an AU but being too lazy to do any research, and I know the HP books like the back of my hand so here we are. 
> 
> It's basically finished already so no long waits between chapters.

Starks went to Gryffindor, everyone knew. From the dour, dark-haired, long faced Starks of generations past to the current bolshy carrot-topped lot, they invariably ended up on that far table, scribbling their homework at the last minute and getting into duels with Slytherins over the most meagre slight to their honour. Same for Mormonts, Umbers and Baratheons.

Lannisters went to Slytherin – green ties, green eyes, and nasty smirks in between. They shared their table with the Boltons and the Freys – and Gregor. Arryns were Ravenclaw, noses either in a book or in the air. Same with the Reeds, the Blackwoods, the Hightowers. The Hufflepuff table was always full of Tarths, Tullys and Manderlys, not to mention assorted Snows, Stones, Waters and Rivers who didn’t quite fit anywhere else.

Some of the old names couldn’t be Sorted quite so easily. Tyrells and Martells were spread evenly throughout the houses, and of course, there was always the odd exception to the usual rule. Asha Greyjoy came from generations of Slytherins, but had been placed in Gryffindor almost immediately. Stannis Baratheon was Hufflepuff through and through, and exceptionally bitter about it. And sweet, pretty Sansa Stark had cried for a week after she was Sorted into Ravenclaw, terrified she had dishonoured her entire family. Ned Stark himself had had to come up from York to calm her down.

Everything about that had been stupid as hell, not least because Sansa really did seem to belong in Ravenclaw. She was soft-spoken and dreamy, forever gazing out at the lake and the mountains and humming to herself. She excelled in Charms, frequented the library far more regularly than her siblings deemed healthy, and had won prizes in Ancient Runes and History of Magic.

Sandor could remember every interaction he had ever had with her, and there wasn’t a single one in which he hadn’t behaved like an arsehole.

The first time had been bad. She had only been a first year. She had stumbled across him late in the Owlery after his first Quidditch match – a devastating loss against Slytherin. Against Gregor. Wylla and Brienne had half-heartedly tried to cheer him up, but quickly left him alone when they got a good look at his face – just like everyone did, always. He had pissed off the house elves by breaking into the kitchen and stealing a bottle of cooking sherry, and had been thoroughly drunk by the time Sansa came up to post her letter.

_You’re the pretty little crying Ravenclaw, aren’t you… why don’t you go and cry at Mormont, and maybe she’ll rethink some of those penalties…_

_I think Madam Mormont was right. That Bludger you hit at Joffrey nearly broke his nose._

_Bloody well wish it had. Stupid little first year, he’s only on the team because mummy paid them to put him there… you’re blushing. You think he’s good looking, don’t you? He won’t be if Gregor gets to him…_

_But Gregor wouldn’t hit a Bludger at his own teammate –_

Sandor had nearly laughed himself sick.

_You think so, do you? You think he’s too much of a good sport? What a bloody gorgeous world you must live in… Gregor would Avada Kedavra our mum if that’s what he felt like doing. She’s a Muggle… living with a son like that, and not a single spell she can cast to stop him… you can’t imagine it, can you? Not with your precious little letter to your perfect pureblood family…_

_He… he couldn’t do an Unforgiveable Curse, surely…_

_Oh, he could. How do you think I got these scars? You think it was an accident? If it was normal fire, the Healers would’ve been able to fix them… no, my dearest darling brother found me playing with his old toy broom when I was seven years old, and he shot a jet of Fiendfyre at my face._

She was gaping at him, horrified, but he couldn’t stop, the words pushing out of his throat like vomit.

_He couldn’t make enough to start a real blaze… just enough to send me to St Mungo’s for months with half my face melted off… while Dad covered everything up because his pride and joy was the new Slytherin Quidditch star… but no, keep on telling me what a stand-up bloke he is… my big brother…_

He wasn’t sure what happened next, but suddenly she was very close. Her small, pale hand was on his shoulder, her hair hanging down close enough to brush his cheek. Her eyes, the back of his mind observed, were an opaque blue.

‘He’s a monster,’ she whispered. ‘And _you’re_ the better flier.’

She posted her letter and left him there, surrounded by owl droppings and clutching his empty bottle. After that, the house elves put new enchantments on the booze cabinets. He kept expecting her to tell on him to one of the professors, but she never did.


	2. Chapter 2

The following year Sandor had noticed, much to his disgust, that Sansa and Joffrey seemed to be hanging around each other, presumably engaged in the kind of sexless, contactless activities that passed for dates when you were twelve. Thankfully it didn’t last – Joff seemed to have even more trouble than Sandor trying not to be a total cock – but it left Sansa quieter, more withdrawn. Sandor witnessed the culmination when he walked in on Joff and a bunch of his cronies menacing Sansa and her screeching pipsqueak of a sister in an empty classroom.

‘You stay away from us!’ the newest Stark addition to Hogwarts was shouting. ‘You hexed Mycah! I don’t care what you say, I saw you do it, and even if no one else in the whole stupid school will say anything about it, I will. You stay away from my friends or I’ll make you sorry!’

‘What are you going to do, shoot sparks at me?’ sneered Joff. ‘You don’t even know any spells yet. And if you’re half as stupid as your sister you won’t know any this time next year either.’

Sansa lowered her eyes as they filled with tears.

‘Hey,’ called Sandor, pushing off from where he was leaning against the doorframe. ‘I know a few spells.’

Before he could stop himself, he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the Starks. Joff didn’t look so smug any more. Sandor was a fourth year, he was a big ugly git, and he was already the best fighter in old Selmy’s duelling club. Not that Selmy had had much to do with it. Gregor had finally graduated after being held back twice, but Sandor still had to see him in the summer.

‘Come on then, you skinny streak of piss,’ he said, drawing his wand. ‘You’ve still got us outnumbered.’

The little brat glanced at his friends, each of their gormless faces varying degrees of chubby, spotty, and shitting themselves. ‘We’ll go,’ he spat resentfully.

‘Nope,’ said Sandor. ‘Wands out.’

‘Look, no one wants a fight –’

‘Wrong,’ said Sandor. He gave Joff a nasty grin. ‘I do.’

It all kicked off after that. It was a good thing Joff and his friends were so thick, because it basically amounted to five against one. The little Stark sister had guts, but she really couldn’t do much more than shoot red sparks, and Sansa didn’t even attempt to help. He could sense her looking at him, though, with eyes as big as moons.

She came to Hufflepuff Quidditch practice the next day and he knew she was waiting for him. He played as fiercely as he could, though his eye kept being drawn to where she sat twisting her hands, her auburn hair redder than usual in the light of the setting sun. For a moment he let himself imagine that this was how it would be if she was his girlfriend, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it. She was just a kid. And even if she wasn’t, there was no way.

He saw her exchange a word with Mya as they finished up, and Mya cast him a curious look before trudging back to the castle with the others. Then it was just the two of them, and Sandor didn’t know if it was for the better or worse that he was sober this time.

‘Going to support us in the next match, then?’ he asked her. ‘I’ll change your scarf to black and yellow.’

She gasped. ‘But your next match is against Gryffindor! I couldn’t support you over Robb and Jon, what would everyone think?’

‘That I threatened you, probably,’ said Sandor, his mood souring even though he had already known what she would say.

‘But you wouldn’t do that!’ said Sansa indignantly.

‘Yes I would. I’ll threaten you right now if you don’t tell me why you’ve come all the way out here to chirp at me.’

As usual, his joke fell flat. ‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said, her voice small.

‘Go on then.’ He wanted to see what she would do, his mind supplying visions of her taking his hand and pressing her pretty blue hair ribbon into it as a favour for the next match, like a medieval princess. Perhaps she would have done, if he had looked like Joff. Instead she shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to meet his eye. His hands clenched into fists.

‘It… it was very kind of you to defend us like that,’ she stammered.

‘I’m not kind. I just don’t like bullies.’

‘Well, there were five of them and you took them all on. You were very brave.’

‘Brave my arse. What’s the worst those kids could do to me? They only know about three spells between them, and one is _Alohomora_. Why didn’t you fight back?’

‘I’m hopeless at those kinds of spells.’

‘You always will be if you don’t put any bloody work in. If you’re scared of a little Welsh prick like Joff Baratheon hitting you with a Jellylegs Jinx, you’ll shit your pants if you ever run into the likes of my brother in a dark alley. This might be a foreign concept to a spoilt little Stark, but if you want to get anywhere in life you have to learn to look after yourself.’

There was a beat. It occurred to Sandor that he was yelling at a twelve year old girl.

‘Told you I wasn’t kind,’ he muttered. It was getting dark. He chanced a look at her face. She seemed paler than usual, with dark circles under her eyes. She was hugging herself. As he watched, her face creased into a little pained wince.

‘Did he hex you?’ Sandor demanded. ‘Because if he did –’

‘No, he didn’t,’ she mumbled. ‘You’re right, he probably wouldn’t be able to anyway. It’s just… my tummy’s been hurting.’

Now he felt even more like a dickhead.

‘Have you been to the hospital wing?’ She shook her head, and he sighed. ‘Come on, then.’

Mounting his broom, he pulled her on in front of him sidesaddle, his spare hand holding her steady. She shrieked and clutched at his robes as they rose through the air, a pretty pink flush brightening her cheeks. He would have liked to keep her there, and had she been feeling better he might have been tempted.

‘Where are we going? You’ve passed the entrance hall!’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s quicker this way.’

He drew to a hover outside the biggest window the hospital wing had to offer, thumped on the glass, and deposited a blushing, apologetic Sansa in the arms of an exasperated Madam Mordane, who snapped the window shut with a firm ‘ _Goodbye_ , Clegane,’ and almost definitely went on to give Sansa a lecture about spending time with ‘the wrong type of boy’.  

Maybe Mordane was the one who told Robb Stark and Jon Snow about their little broomstick ride, or maybe it had been one of Sandor’s so-called teammates. Gendry was very chummy with the smaller, more belligerent Stark sister – it had probably been him. It might even have been Sansa herself. It didn’t matter. Robb and Jon’s attempt to intimidate Sandor had been entertaining, but they’d pissed him off nevertheless. Their meaning had been clear: he wasn’t good enough. Too common, too ugly, too old, and too good at hexes to be trusted with their precious little princess. He laughed and swore and threatened until they left him alone, but their words had festered, and during the match against Gryffindor he hit that Bludger harder than he should have, and Robb Stark went out like a light.

He was fine, obviously. A mildly severed spine was nothing Mordane couldn’t take care of. But Sandor got a seemingly endless string of detentions, and Sansa wouldn’t speak to him. The only Stark who would was Arya, who seized every opportunity she could get to yell at him about how much of an arse he was. She tried to attack him in Duelling Club so many times that she earned a temporary ban. He didn’t give a damn about Robb and Jon hating him, but it was a shame about the girls. He liked them.

So that had been a shit year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sandor is a Hufflepuff.


	3. Chapter 3

His fifth year was probably the best it had ever been – or ever would be again, for that matter. That creepy fucker Baelish had taken over as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and his sly favouritism of anyone pureblood and rich had caused Sandor’s grades to nosedive right in time for his O.W.L.s. After getting a P on a mock exam, he stomped up to Baelish’s office to demand a fair score, but what he saw going on in there made him freeze.

Sansa was standing there, wand aloft, uncertainly repeating Baelish’s instructions as he corrected her stance. However, his corrections came in the form of him standing so close behind her you’d struggle to fit a piece of parchment between the two of them. He was whispering into her ear, with one hand guiding her wand arm and the other squeezing her hip. Sansa looked desperately uncomfortable, but because every oily word oozing out of Baelish’s mouth was strictly related to the spell at hand, she didn’t make a peep of protest.

Sandor suffered from no such compunctions.

‘What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing, you creepy fucking nonce?’

He barged in, wand out, and saw Baelish attempt to draw away from his victim slowly, nonchalantly, as though nothing out of the ordinary were occurring. Sansa’s face was a beautiful picture of relief.

‘A bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t you say?’ said Baelish, trying to sound bored. ‘Nothing untoward is going on; I am simply instructing Miss Stark in effective defensive posture. Now if you go outside and wait your turn, I’ll deal with you in a moment.’

‘If you try and deal with me the same way you did with Sansa I’ll hex your block off. What are you, forty-five? She’s thirteen!’

‘Ah, morality lessons from a Clegane. Just what I need. Tell me, how is your brother these days? I heard he’s returned to your ancestral home to utilise his talents – by which I mean, he’s terrorising the worst council estate in Birmingham, torturing Muggles for kicks.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ shouted Sandor. ‘I can’t stop him, can I, not while I’m stuck here getting shit grades because you don’t like me –’

‘For heaven’s sake, Clegane, _no one_ likes you. And as you are a fifth year student who is incapable of producing even an incorporeal Patronus, I’d say those shit grades were well deserved, wouldn’t you?’

The bastard had him there. Sansa was looking right at him, right through him, and he couldn’t look back, because he knew that she knew exactly why he couldn’t cast a Patronus. Even if there had been any truly happy memories to choose from, they’d be pretty lies, inevitably dissolving as the same ugly day loomed large over and over again in his mind. Shaking with rage at his miserable, pathetic life, Sandor was on the verge of hexing Baelish into a wet pile of organs – and then he felt her fingers clasping his hand.

‘I like him.’

Sandor stared down at their entwined hands, hers so small and pale and pretty in his. It felt as though she had short-circuited the wires in his head.

Baelish had frozen. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Stark?’

‘I like him,’ said Sansa again. Her voice was soft, but perfectly assured. ‘I don’t think it’s fair to hold him responsible for his brother’s actions when he’s never done anything like that himself. And perhaps the reason why he’s struggling to cast a Patronus is because his animal is large. Bigger Patronuses require more powerful magic, isn’t that how it works? Your Patronus is a mockingbird, but Sandor is much bigger than you. His Patronus would probably be bigger too, so it would be more difficult to cast. Isn’t that right, Professor?’

She was saying it out of pity, he knew she was, yet it still made his heart beat faster. She had said she liked him, and she was holding his hand. Baelish had gone red in the face, and Sandor wondered if she knew the implications of what she’d just said to them both.

He sniggered.

Perhaps Baelish had been planning an attack all along, or perhaps the embarrassment tipped him over the edge. Either way, he was rattled, and clumsier about drawing his wand than he should have been.

_‘Oblivi-’_

_‘Protego!’_

Sandor couldn’t cast a Patronus to save his life, but his Shield charms were as strong as the walls of Hogwarts. Baelish’s spell rebounded right back into his goateed face, hitting him so hard he crashed loudly into his desk.

Sansa gasped. ‘Will he be all right?’

‘Who cares?’ grunted Sandor, still concentrating on his Shield. Baelish might be unconscious, or he might be faking, ready to do worse than Obliviate them if Sandor let his guard down.

‘But we could get in a lot of trouble!’

‘We?’ Sandor snorted. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I did, I provoked him.’

‘Just because you’re ridiculously pretty doesn’t mean you _provoked_ him. If the world worked like that you’d be getting groped morning, noon and night. He’s a fucking nonce and he should bloody well know better.’

‘I meant that I provoked him with what I said.’ There was a pause, and a light pressure on his hand. ‘You think I’m ridiculously pretty?’

‘I’ve got eyes, haven’t I?’ The magic was flowing steadily through him into his wand, fountaining at the tip into a thick silvery barrier of sound between them and where Baelish lay. He could keep this up for forty-five minutes, maybe longer if he had to. As soon as he’d got to Hogwarts in first year it had been the first spell he’d looked up, and he had taught it to himself in empty classrooms years before it came up in the curriculum. Every summer tested his limits further, huddled behind the Shield in the kitchen with his mother late at night as Gregor drunkenly hurled curse after curse at them, smashing pots and cupboard doors. It was worst when the neighbours reported a disturbance to the Muggle police. Gregor smashed them too.

Baelish didn’t seem to be moving. Probably he really was out cold. Now was the perfect time to see how Sandor’s Shield would hold up if he tried to walk more than a couple of feet while casting it. He took a deep breath and glanced around, and saw Sansa smiling and blushing up at him. Her hand was still in his.

‘We… should probably go,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Oh, I don’t think so, Clegane.’

Sandor’s head snapped round. The Shield wavered but didn’t vanish – but it was only Professor Lannister, eyeing him in a thoroughly patronising manner, as usual. He must have heard Baelish fall.

‘Would either of you care to tell me what’s going on here?’ Lannister enquired. ‘You can drop that spell, Clegane. And now I come to think of it, drop each other’s hands as well. Your adolescent fumblings are no business of mine.’

‘The only one doing any adolescent fumbling was Baelish,’ retorted Sandor. He jerked his wand and the Shield vanished, and Sansa’s hand pulled away from his. He glared at her. ‘Tell him.’

‘It wasn’t Sandor’s fault, Professor,’ she said. ‘He was defending me. It was very gallant.’

Sandor snorted, and Lannister squinted up at her. ‘Gallant? Miss Stark, has Clegane Confunded you?’

‘No!’ she said indignantly. ‘He helped me. Professor Baelish was… he was…’

‘Trying to absorb himself directly into your bloodstream through the medium of noncey fucking groping?’ said Sandor.

She blushed bright red and nodded, hugging herself.

‘Groping?’ Lannister looked appalled. ‘These are very serious accusations. Is this true?’

‘Veritaserum me if you like, I’ll tell you what I saw,’ said Sandor.

‘Will it take Veritaserum for you to tell me why Professor Baelish is unconscious?’

‘He tried to Obliviate us, so I cast a Shield and his spell rebounded off it and hit him in the face. Serves him right. Bloody creep.’

The creep in question stirred. Sandor turned his wand on him, but he wasn’t posing much of a threat. Only half awake, he reached a hand out to Sansa, and mumbled ‘Cat?’

‘Ah,’ said Lannister. ‘I see. Well, I suppose I’d better take you all to the Headmaster’s office.’

Baelish didn’t last after that. He was gone the next day; turned out he’d tried it on with some others, including Sansa’s friend Jeyne Poole, who had been the victim of a few strong Memory charms. He was replaced with Lannister’s significantly taller brother, the only Gryffindor in the family, who spent most of his time regaling them with stories about life as an Auror.

Sandor experienced a wave of popularity which irritated him no end. Lannister awarded him fifty points to Hufflepuff, Robb and Jon begrudgingly thanked him, and kids he’d never spoken to before in his life started trying to talk to him in the corridors – although he soon scared them off. Only Arya remained constant. She informed him that just because he had rescued Sansa, it didn’t mean he wasn’t an arse. Then she tried to get him with a Bat Bogey hex, but he deflected it and amused himself by hitting her with a Leg Locker.

Sansa came up to him twisting her hands and biting her lip and asking how she could possibly repay him. He wanted to ask for a kiss, but he didn’t want to see the disgust in her eyes. Besides, that would’ve made him as bad as Baelish. So he shrugged, and suggested a bottle of Firewhisky. She had gasped – _I can’t do that!_ – but had mentioned Hogsmeade and Butterbeer, and somehow they ended up in the Three Broomsticks together that weekend.

Sandor couldn’t see the point of Butterbeer, but Sansa obviously liked it, so he let her buy two and carried them over to a corner table for her. He tried to ignore the way people were staring at them, tried to pretend they were on a date. Was this what it would be like? Her dedication to pointless small talk was formidable.

She wanted to know his favourite subject ( _Defence, or at least it was until that nonce showed up_ ), his Quidditch team ( _Tornadoes. Think I’m good enough for them to sign me on?_ ), his career plans ( _Auror. Maybe. Not like I care either way_ ), his best friends’ names ( _Do teammates count as friends?_ ), and if he had a pet ( _They don’t let you bring dogs here, so what’s the point?_ ). And even though she was an Arrows fan who chirped incessantly, she was decent company; she loved dogs too, and wanted to work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, rather than just marry rich, as he had sometimes assumed in fouler moods.

Decent company may have been something of an understatement, he thought begrudgingly as she showed him a photograph of her dog, smiling at him like there was nothing wrong with his face. He felt like he’d won some sort of competition; a meet-and-greet with a beautiful princess, so well-bred she had to be friendly and polite and interested in everyone she met, even the likes of him.

They finished their Butterbeers and he said nothing, unwilling to invoke the inevitable gracious refusal he’d get if he offered her another drink. She glanced awkwardly around the pub in the wake of his silence and he stared at her hungrily. So slender and fair, with those big eyes and the ubiquitous blue ribbon in her hair, ever changing according to the season. Midnight blue velvet in the depths of winter, lightening in degrees along with the evenings until midsummer when it was pale blue satin. He paid more attention to her little efforts than he would ever admit. Today’s ribbon had an almost purplish sheen to it, and looked to be made of floaty silk. He wondered if she matched her underwear to it, and promptly wanted to punch himself in the throat for thinking about her like that.

One of her little friends came over and asked if she was all right, casting pointed looks at him until he felt like baring his teeth in her direction. Ever the perfect little lady, Sansa said that of course she was, and gently sent the girl packing. She smiled expectantly at Sandor, and he had no idea what the hell she wanted him to do.

‘Still thirsty?’ he grunted.

‘Only if you are,’ she said, looking at him through her eyelashes. He almost slammed his head into the table in frustration. 

‘That’s not how it works,’ he informed her through gritted teeth. ‘Either you are or you aren’t. Think for your damn self.’

Her smile disappeared. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said quietly, and Sandor could have kicked himself. He’d been louder than he wanted to be, as bloody usual, and people were staring.

‘Want to get out of here?’ he muttered. ‘I can walk you somewhere…’

He had meant that he’d walk her to wherever she wanted to go next, without him, but she smiled at him again and said _A walk would be very nice, thank you_ , and he was too bemused to argue.

They spent the afternoon wandering around Hogsmeade side by side, not quite touching but much closer than he’d ever anticipated being. It was a cold, clear spring day, and he had been allowed to spend it with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. So he tried to ignore the way everyone seemed to stare at them and whisper, tried to empty his mind of the usual howling bullshit it was always hell bent on conjuring. This was likely as good as things would get for him, so he shut up, let Sansa do the talking, and did his best to let himself enjoy the day for what it was.

It worked. He felt himself relax by increments, and felt her do the same until she was smiling at him almost nonstop, giggling when he made a stupid joke, even tugging on his wrist when she wanted to show him a tree or cottage which had never been anything special and which she absolutely _had_ to know he’d seen before. But it was different, today, with her.

Naturally he ruined it.

They didn’t go back to the castle until the sunset turned the jets of cloud to pink and orange, which he wouldn’t have noticed if Sansa hadn’t insisted he admire the view. He was more interested in the way the light caught her hair, but he told her that if she liked the clouds so much she should go flying more often.

‘I’m hopeless on a broom,’ she told him. ‘It makes me too nervous for it to be much fun. I’m not like you.’

‘You could come on my broom,’ his mouth volunteered idiotically. ‘Remember last year? You weren’t scared, were you?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ she said. She was standing very close and smiling up at him and he was immobilised; as powerless as if she’d got him under the Imperius Curse. Unthinking, unable to help it, he swayed down towards her, and her eyes snapped shut.

It was like being dowsed in cold water. She couldn’t look at him. Of course she couldn’t. She had wanted to thank him for helping her, that was all, and he’d repaid her by trying the exact same crap as Baelish. It hadn’t been a date. He’d been fucking kidding himself to think that a girl like her would so much as breathe in his direction if she didn’t think she owed him.

Sandor swallowed hard, his fists clenched tight. ‘See you later,’ he muttered, and took off for the Forbidden Forest as fast as he could go without looking like he was running. He stayed there until it was dark, until grumpy old Jorah the groundskeeper found him there and gave him a detention for staying out after hours and bothering the Thestrals.

He avoided Sansa after that, and she returned the favour.


	4. Chapter 4

Sixth year was the worst. The Triwizard Tournament meant not only that Sansa’s boring, solemn cousin was selected to represent the school, all the while going around looking as though it was some great burden he must endure, but also that Christmas was completely taken over by the occurrence of the Yule Ball. Had it been any other year, Sandor would have been at perfect liberty to skip what was destined to be an intensely miserable evening, but as the new Hufflepuff Quidditch captain in the wake of Brienne’s graduation, he was informed that his attendance was non-negotiable.

He got some cheap grey dress robes with enough inside pockets to conceal all of his hip flasks, and went on his own. Once he’d downed the contents of one flask, it wasn’t so bad. He sat at a table with Stannis and Davos, both of whom were doing an admirable job of ignoring their partners, and listened to their bitchy commentary on everyone in their line of sight.

‘I thought Robb Stark was supposed to be going with one of the Frey girls. Who’s that?’

‘That is Jeyne Westerling, a Durmstrang student who has obviously caught his eye. Stark has no sense of decency.’

‘He’s going to get hexed in the loos for that one. What’s Margaery Tyrell doing with Joffrey? Surely she could do better.’

‘I am willing to bet his mother bribed her.’

‘Blimey, have you seen your brother?’

‘Here with Loras, in his rainbow cloak? Don’t remind me. No subtlety at all.’

‘Well, at least they look happy. Hey, look – is that Arya Stark? In the green robes?’

‘So it seems. I wonder what her mother threatened her with to get her to dress up.’

‘She looks like a very small oak tree. She’s here with Gendry! Ah, he’s all embarrassed.’

‘You waving at him like that probably isn’t helping. Look at Jon. He’s a terrible dancer. He is supposed to be representing the school. I would have got lessons if I were champion.’

‘Yes, dear. So you keep saying. Oh, there’s Asha. Has she brought two partners?’

‘That would be just like a Greyjoy, but I think it more likely that Tristifer Botley just can’t take a hint.’

‘Yeah, she’s only dancing with Qarl. Poor Tris. Should I go and have a word?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He has made his bed, so let him lie in it. What on earth is Sansa Stark doing with that moron?’

Sandor choked on a mouthful of Firewhisky and looked around wildly. There she was, in flowing white robes that glimmered aqua and mauve and periwinkle where the light hit them, with opals shining in her hair. She was on the arm of the biggest arsehole on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, Harry bloody Hardyng.

‘Wanker,’ Sandor muttered, and took another gulp of whisky, glaring at the two of them. Eventually it occurred to him that Stannis and Davos were looking at him pityingly. Well, Davos looked pitying. Stannis looked irritated and patronising, as usual.

‘What?’ Sandor growled.

‘She turned you down, eh mate?’ said Davos.

‘Nobody turned me down,’ he snarled.

‘You didn’t even ask her?’ said Stannis. ‘Good lord. Then what on earth did you expect?’

‘Nothing!’

‘If it’s any consolation, Harry’ll not be with her for long,’ said Davos. ‘You know what he’s like. No interest in any woman who won’t let him get his end away. And Sansa just doesn’t seem the type.’

No, she wasn’t the type. He was right about that. But unfortunately she very much _was_ the type to be pressured into doing something she wasn’t comfortable with by an arsehole prettyboy. So Sandor watched her like a hawk all evening, and didn’t really keep track of how much he was drinking.

It felt weird and wrong seeing her with someone else, but he couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t like he had any claim to her. Physically, Harry Hardyng was exactly the kind of bloke anyone would expect her to go for, and she obviously wasn’t bothered by all those rumours of pregnant Muggle girls down in Norfolk. They danced and flirted, Sandor glared, and when Arya saw him she shouted _Give it up, creepazoid, she’s moved on_ , but thankfully Sansa didn’t hear.

Davos’ prediction came true eventually; Harry whispered something in Sansa’s ear and groped at her arse, and she backed away from him and replied, frowning. There was a brief back and forth, during which time Sandor decided exactly which hexes would resolve the situation perfectly, and then Harry shrugged, held up his hands, and strolled off to a dimly-lit corner where Myranda Royce had been seemingly waiting for him the whole time.

Looking unutterably hurt, Sansa took a seat and hugged herself. Sandor backed more whisky as various well-wishers checked up on her; her friend Jeyne, Margaery Tyrell, Mya and Lothor Brune, and Gendry with a spitting, wand-brandishing Arya. Sandor tried to go over, but Davos put a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘Sure you want to speak to her just now? You’re three sheets to the wind, mate. Why not wait until tomorrow?’

‘Or write her a letter,’ said Stannis. ‘You can borrow Proudwing.’

That would be bloody perfect. Stannis’ gimpy owl showing up with a love note from the ugliest boy in Hogwarts. How could she resist? He watched her delicately wiping her eyes, as fine as if she were made of china. He would never have done this to her. The second she gave him any indication of interest, he probably would have just flat out proposed marriage. _Wait, that’s a dick move too in its own way. Nice one, fuckface._

Still, at least it would be preferable to the evening she was having now. She was looking around her at the dancing couples and the decorations and the band, trying to derive some semblance of enjoyment and romance from people-watching, but Sandor knew it wasn’t what she wanted. She’d probably been dreaming of this night for weeks, trying out different robes and hairstyles and learning to dance… he felt a burst of rage building up in his chest, and channelled it into a vicious jab of his wand to the darkened corner where Hardyng and Royce were entwined. He watched in venomous satisfaction as they broke apart and Hardyng sprinted from the Great Hall. Sansa was watching them too, puzzled. While Davos and Stannis were being drawn into an argument with their partners about why they hadn’t asked them to dance, Sandor got up and lurched over to her.

‘Looked like food poisoning,’ he remarked, sheathing his wand and collapsing heavily into the chair beside hers. ‘But it wasn’t.’

Sansa frowned. She looked beyond pretty tonight. His brain couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t seem to quantify just how much he wanted to reach out and touch her.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Did you hex him?’

‘Shouldn’t have been such an arsehole, should he?’

‘Are you hexing every ars- I mean, everyone who’s not very nice?’ she amended, and Sandor snorted. ‘Or just Harry?’

‘Why? Is there anyone else you want me to get?’

‘If there was, I wouldn’t need to ask,’ said Sansa. ‘You’d do it of your own accord, like you always do. Do you look out for other girls like this?’

‘Other girls aren’t such perfect little ladies,’ said Sandor. ‘Other girls would’ve just hexed him themselves.’

‘I’m not perfect,’ she said, and looked down at the floor. ‘If I was, I wouldn’t get abandoned on dates.’

‘Well come on, you came here with Hardyng. What did you expect? Either take off your knickers or make way for someone who will, that’s his philosophy. And he looked at you, and thought you must have very pretty knickers, and that what’s underneath must be even prettier. Suppose you can’t blame a man for trying.’

Sansa flushed bright red. ‘You’re awful. And drunk.’

‘Right on both counts.’ Sandor took another swig of whisky and offered her his flask, intently wanting her to put her lips where his had been. ‘Want some?’

‘No I do not! You know it’s against the rules. I’m surprised you haven’t been kicked out. You’re swaying in your seat.’

She was much mouthier than he remembered. He liked it.

‘Being kicked out would be fine with me. I’m only here because they made me come. What am I supposed to do at a ball?’

‘Dance?’ Sansa said quietly. Her fingers twisted in her lap.

Sandor snorted. ‘I don’t _dance_.’

‘Of course you don’t. That would be nice, and normal, and fun. You probably just do what Harry does – what _every_ boy seems to do – and say mean and manipulative things to girls, hoping they’ll let you feel them up in the Astronomy Tower –’

‘Hey, I am not manipulative,’ growled Sandor.

‘Well, maybe not, but you’re mean all right.’

‘Not to you!’ he shouted, then closed his mouth abruptly. ‘Shit. OK. But not all the time!’ 

‘You’re being mean right now,’ said Sansa. ‘You came over here and picked a fight, even though you knew I was having a terrible evening already.’

‘Well then maybe you should have gone with me, and this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘You – I should have –’ Sansa’s mouth had fallen open. She actually stamped her foot. ‘You didn’t _ask_ me!’

‘Why the hell would I?’ said Sandor. ‘You don’t like me.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Sansa. Her eyes were welling up. ‘You know I do. I would have gone with you, if you’d asked.’

‘Yeah, out of pity,’ snapped Sandor. ‘Forgive me for not jumping at the chance. Although maybe I missed a trick. If I’d tried my luck like Hardyng, you might’ve felt sorry enough for me to show me your tits out of charity.’

Sansa slapped him. She got to her feet and hurried out of the Great Hall, her face white as milk.

It occurred to Sandor that everyone in the vicinity was staring at him. Several Starks were brandishing their wands, held back only by their partners, and Davos had his face in his hands. Scowling, Sandor retrieved another hip flask from an inside pocket and chugged its contents down in one. Witnessed by several professors, this little indiscretion was more than enough to get him kicked out of the ball, with a detention or three thrown in.

He and Sansa didn’t speak after that, and he couldn’t blame her. He had been a massive prick – even more so than usual. He had gone up to his dormitory, polished off all the booze he could find under his bed, and passed out until noon the next day. He woke up with a vile headache and in an even worse mood when he realised what he’d done. She’d slapped him. Fucking hell. It hadn’t really hurt, but that wasn’t the point.

He was sick as a dog that entire weekend, and assumed it was just a bad hangover until he got a vindictive little note from Arya informing him she’d lightly poisoned his pumpkin juice when he finally made it to the Great Hall for a meal. He couldn’t even find it in him to be angry, let alone to get her back for it. He was a mean ugly dickhead, and she had a bright future ahead of her in the Department of Mysteries.

Sandor debated sending Sansa a letter, but there seemed to be little point. Even in the extremely unlikely event that she _did_ forgive him, she was still a damn sight too good for him. He couldn’t seem to go near her without doing something mind-bogglingly twattish, so really they would both be better off if he just steered clear of her. However, if he had thought he couldn’t humiliate himself any more than he had at the Yule Ball, he was sorely mistaken.

They came on the last Hogsmeade weekend of the year before the summer holidays. Hordes of them descending on the village, faceless marchers in hooded cloaks, shouting about impurity and sin and firing out curses. Sandor was on the front line of the fight, side by side with professors and shopkeepers giving as good as he got, and often better.

It would have been no contest, if it weren’t for the Dementors.

He had broken off from the fight and run down a side street – he had thought he’d seen Sansa, running from an attacker, and he had gone after her without a second thought. But when he got there she was nowhere to be seen, and the cloaked figure turned slowly around. Sandor’s stomach dropped. No face, no feet, no sound – just roaring silence pressing at his ears, and the creeping, stretching cold.

But no, that wasn’t right – it was getting warm. Hotter and hotter, and he could see Gregor’s face twisting with malice, the toy broom hexed into splinters. Flames, all around, walling him in, his mother’s sobs, his father’s excuses, and the burning, blinding agony on his face as his brother loomed large. Sandor begged, pleaded, wept, his wand forgotten as he screamed in pain, the fire licking at his face, his neck, his arm – his _arm?_ –

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

Gregor vanished in a bright burst of light, and Sandor threw himself blindly to the ground, rolling and sobbing. His arm, his arm – his brother had done it again, had set him on fire from hundreds of miles away.

Someone was talking to him, putting their hands on his shoulders. ‘Help me,’ he begged. ‘Please, I’m burned. Help me. He’s burned me again, please –’

The voice said something, and Sandor screamed as cold water cascaded over his arm. Smoke was rising off him, he knew it, his arm smelled like a fucking pork joint, burnt and ugly and excruciatingly painful. He collapsed in on himself and broke down completely. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, crying like a baby in the dirt, cradling his arm. The cool water poured over him again and again, a hand stroked his shoulders and back and hair, and he was vaguely aware of someone singing, some old song about thyme and heather. When he finally opened his eyes, breath ragged and sore, he was greeted by the sight of a vast wolf curled up beside him, glowing silver-white and watching him steadily.

The Dementor was gone, the building beside him was a blackened smoking shell, and Hogsmeade was nearly silent, save for the sweet singing of the girl who held him, water fountaining from her wand over his arm. He knew her voice, her scent, her slender hands. Her Patronus, radiating safety and calm. Her kindness, to care for him like this when he was worse than scum, when she’d found him so low, shaking and sobbing and helpless.

‘Sansa,’ he breathed, and felt her hold him tighter.

Hogsmeade was crawling with search parties, and Selmy was the one who found them and sent them back to Hogwarts. Sansa walked him all the way to the hospital wing, her arm in his, only leaving him when Mordane booted her out. The burns healed perfectly, leaving only the faintest of scars. It wasn’t Fiendfyre. It wasn’t Gregor. Just the memory of him had been enough. Sandor had been a scared little boy in the face of the Dementor, seven years old all over again, so consumed by his past that he had been frozen to the spot, unable even to move his arm out of the licking flames of a burning building.

He was weak. He was pathetic and ugly and scarred and broken, and Sansa had been there to witness it. He had run to help her, to atone for his unkindness, to serve her in the only way he knew how, but if it hadn’t been for her he would have stood there and let himself burn to death.

She tried to visit him in the hospital wing the next day, but he wouldn’t see her. He was ashamed, and her pity was more than he could stand. Thankfully it was only a few days until the end of the school year, so he lurked in his dormitory until then, skipping classes, stealing food from the kitchens rather than going to meals and risking seeing her. The teachers had let him get away with it – probably Selmy and Mordane had warned them about the state he was in. They all knew who he had to go back to over the summer.

It had been the last summer he’d ever have to live there, though. Now in his final year at Hogwarts, he could start earning some money as soon as he graduated, could finally afford a place of his own. Maybe he’d be able to buy a place for his mum, too – somewhere quiet and safe with a proper garden, without the ugly music of shouts and sirens bouncing off graffitied concrete.

It was the first week of term, and he was loitering in a corridor after hours – a heinous crime in the eyes of the professors, although he’d never understood why. His homework was done, but he didn’t want to go back to the Hufflepuff common room. He was just debating where he _did_ want to go when he heard the voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is your OTP even your OTP if they don't have a giant fight at the Yule Ball? 
> 
> Also I am SO SORRY


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of Sandor's story! But I had way too much fun working on this AU, so coming up next is Sansa's version of events. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos! They make my day :)

New Prefects. They were always the same; so excited about the chance to wield the slightest bit of power in September, then stressed and bored with the responsibility by June. None of them tended to bother him much – apart from Stannis, but he followed a set patrol route from which he refused to deviate, so Sandor knew where to avoid if he wanted a bit of peace and quiet. He folded his arms and waited. Joff was a Prefect now; he’d definitely want to exercise his authority. That ought to be a laugh.

But it wasn’t Joff.

Of course she was a Prefect. Little Miss Perfect. The only person in the entire school who could get him to move, and she wouldn’t even need to hex him. He was debating sprinting straight back to his common room so he wouldn’t have to deal with speaking to her, but that would undermine his dignity even more than last year’s incidents already had. He couldn’t avoid her all year. Best to get it over with now. She wouldn’t want to talk to him anyway.

Her fat little patrol partner squeaked with fright when he saw him, stopping in his tracks. ‘Sansa? M-Maybe we’d better go back and check that other corridor, I think I heard a – a noise…’

She was looking at him. He could feel it.

‘Why don’t you go and check it out, Sam? I’ll finish up here.’

‘You don’t have to – I mean, you could come with me – the noise might be a two-person job.’

‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ she told him kindly. ‘You go back and take care of it. I can handle Sandor Clegane.’

‘Better use two hands.’ Sandor leered at her. She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. Sam seemed to be fighting an internal battle to determine whether or not he should stay and help, but ultimately cowardice won out and he scurried off into the night.

Sansa walked over. Her hair shone copper in the torchlight, her ribbon the same shade of blue as her Prefect badge. She seemed to have grown taller over the summer. Her tits had grown too. He yanked his gaze away and stared at the wall behind her.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said.

‘Probably not,’ he agreed. He was trying to emit an air of indifference, which was somewhat dependent on her not noticing how hard he was flexing his muscles.

‘It’s after hours.’

‘Yup.’

‘You should be in your common room.’

‘Don’t feel like it.’

‘Or your dormitory.’

‘Or _your_ dormitory, how about that?’ Sandor suggested. ‘You must get lonely in that big bed, all by yourself.’

‘Maybe sometimes.’ He stared at her, and she giggled. ‘Did you have a nice summer, Sandor?’

He snorted. ‘What do you think?’

‘How’s your arm?’ she asked quietly. ‘I’ve been worried about you. I tried to visit you in the hospital wing, but they wouldn’t let me see you. Did Madam Mordane heal it?’

‘It’s fine,’ Sandor muttered. He took a deep breath. ‘Look, have you told anyone about that day?’

‘Of course not.’ She took a step towards him, and laid a light hand on his forearm. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

Sandor grunted, distracted by her touch. He knew he ought to say something. She must think he was the most pathetic bloke on the planet.

‘I wanted to write to you,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know if you’d want me to – I thought the letter might reach someone else first.’

‘Gregor would have fought me for it,’ he agreed bitterly. ‘No sense making yourself a target.’ Even a letter from a pretty girl was too much to ask. By the time he was living in a place where arriving owls didn’t routinely get their wings broken, he’d have left Hogwarts and she’d have no cause to even think of him.

‘I don’t suppose he gets much attention from girls,’ said Sansa. She tugged gently at his arms, and they unfolded for her.

‘Not without the Imperius curse.’

‘We don’t want him getting jealous.’ Her hand slid down his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and then her fingers entwined with his. Sandor stared down at where they were connected, her skin so soft and pale against his own. His palms were sweating.

‘Sansa, what…’ His voice sounded thick and dull, as if his throat was full of treacle. He swallowed.

‘It’s all right,’ she said gently. She took his other hand. He was rooted to the spot. ‘I didn’t understand before, but I do now. You like me.’

Fuck. Sandor was about to deny it, to utter the biggest lie he’d ever told in his life, but the expression on her beautiful face was so level and clear it stopped him in his tracks. Pride in tatters, he shut his mouth and looked away.

‘Arya always said you did, but I didn’t believe her,’ Sansa said, her thumbs ghosting feather-light strokes across his skin. ‘It seemed like I just annoyed you. But she got it right, didn’t she? You’re always looking out for me, and I know you think I’m pretty.’

‘Look, I’m sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll stay away from you, all right? You don’t have to go on about it.’ He went to take his hands out of hers, but she held tight and stepped closer.

‘I don’t want you to stay away from me,’ she informed him. ‘I want you to take me flying this weekend.’

Sandor’s jaw dropped.

‘Is this a joke?’ he demanded, shaking her a little. ‘Or a bet? Or – or Polyjuice Potion, if this is Ami Frey under there –’

‘I think you know it’s not.’

He stared down at her helplessly. Sansa Stark was holding his hands. She was smiling up at him, her chest inches from his. She didn’t want him to stay away. She wanted him to ask her out.

‘Flying?’ he said, voice sounding thin and uncertain to his own ears.

The smile she gave him was so bright it was like staring directly into the sun.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

This was a dream, it had to be. Maybe Gregor had finally killed him, and Sandor had somehow achieved a victory in death he’d never dreamed of in life. Either of those explanations made more sense than what currently seemed to be happening.

Sansa was tugging on his hands, giggling when he remained immovable.

‘Come on,’ she said, her eyes alight with laughter. ‘You really do need to go back to your common room. It’s late, and you’re breaking the rules.’

She was right, he supposed, but she was so pretty and playful just now that he couldn’t help but draw things out. Any number of things could go wrong between now and the weekend. By the time Saturday rolled around, she might hate him again, so really it was only common sense that he seize the moment. When she tried to tow him away from where he stood, he gently pulled her closer until their chests were flush. Sansa’s cheeks were crimson, her breath shaky, her eyes starry. Sandor’s head was inclining, he couldn’t help it; he searched her face desperately for any sign of repulsion, but he couldn’t find it. She was blushing, gazing at him in what looked a hell of a lot like excitement.

He was so close, he could do it, but his face, his scars – she couldn’t possibly want it –

Smooth as silk, Sansa rose onto her tiptoes and closed the gap between them, pressing her mouth against his.

He’d got off with a girl before. Course he had. A Muggle girl, a couple of years ago at someone’s house party back in Birmingham. She was older, had no doubt assumed he was older than he was due to his size, and she was drunk enough to drag him to a corner and shove her tongue in his mouth and grope him through his jeans. He hadn’t liked it, not really. Her hair was greasy, and she smelled and tasted so thickly of cigarettes that he almost expected to find tar stains on his hands and mouth when she finally let go of him. He had thought about stopping her, but who was to say she wouldn’t be the only girl who would ever let him kiss her?

Kissing Sansa was worlds apart.

She smelled of lavender, tasted of lemons, like an artisanal dessert way out of his price range. Her hands were cool in his, and he was gripping them so tightly he was worried he was hurting her, but she didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t understand it, but she was here, she had chosen it, had chosen _him_. His belly swooped. He was trembling. Her lips were soft and gentle against his, and he was sure he could feel her smiling.

She slowly pulled away, letting out a dreamy sigh.

‘Sandor,’ she murmured sweetly. ‘Would you like to be my boyfriend?’

‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. He yanked her back towards him, threw his arms around her, and kissed her again, releasing four years of pent-up longing. She squeaked and then hummed into his mouth, her arms closing around his neck, and he held her so tight he lifted her off her feet. She was warm and willing, her tits pressing against his chest, and he knew she must be able to feel his hard-on digging into her stomach. Hopefully she would just assume it was his wand.

His hand tangled in her hair, pulling insistently at the ribbon until it unravelled completely. Her hair was thick and silky; everything about her was smooth and soft and perfect. And she was his girlfriend, _his_. She bit gently at his lip, and he made an embarrassingly loud groaning noise into her mouth. She giggled.

Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

Sansa pulled back at once, gasping, and Sandor reluctantly let her slide out of his arms. She was flustered and dishevelled, hair loose and lips swollen and fucking hell, he wanted to have her on his bed. He glared at Professor Lannister, who was rudely interrupting what had without question been the best experience of his life.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Lannister. ‘Sneaking around after hours to meet a boy. Aren’t you supposed to be preventing this sort of behaviour rather than engaging in it, Miss Stark? That badge on your robes isn’t just there to look pretty.’

‘It was my fault,’ said Sandor. ‘She was trying to get me to go back to my dormitory. I coerced her.’

Lannister snorted, giving him a remarkably piercing look. ‘Nice try, Clegane. You wouldn’t dare. Well, Miss Stark?’

‘I’m so sorry, Professor,’ said Sansa, her cheeks bright red. ‘I promise it won’t happen again. It’s just that I hadn’t seen Sandor since last term, and I had to… say hello.’

‘I sincerely hope you don’t say hello to everyone like that. It doesn’t end well – just ask my sister. Now, can I trust you to go back to your common room, and not to _say hello_ to anyone on any future patrols, or should Professor Reed reconsider his choice of Prefect?’

‘Oh, no – please, you can trust me, I swear –’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Lannister, waving a hand wearily. ‘Run along.’

Sansa nodded. She smiled at Sandor and gave him a little wave, before hurrying down the corridor, her hair tumbling messily about her shoulders. Her ribbon was clutched tight in his hand. He blew out a shaking breath.

She was his girlfriend.

‘I suppose I’d better escort you back to your dormitory,’ remarked Lannister. ‘Otherwise you’d probably try to break into hers.’

They walked in silence, but Sandor could sense the professor looking up at him from the corner of his eye. Outside the Hufflepuff common room, Lannister paused and surveyed him. Sandor shifted and scowled, hands deep in his pockets. He was waiting for an interrogation on how the hell he had managed to procure a love potion.

‘Good lord, you’ve landed on your feet,’ Lannister said, shaking his head. ‘I owe my brother ten Galleons.’

That gave Sandor pause. Had he really been that obvious? Had _Sansa_ been obvious, perhaps, and he had been the only one to miss it? How long had everyone been able to see this coming?

‘Not very professional, is it?’ he muttered. ‘Betting on students.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll cope.’ Lannister said. ‘Try not to lose focus on your studies, won’t you? You know the grades you need to get into Auror training.’

‘Who said I want to be an Auror?’

‘Certainly not you, but you do seem to be conveniently taking all the required classes. And let us not forget that you’re the duelling champion of the school. It would be a shame to see all that talent go to waste.’

Sandor eyed him suspiciously. It had sounded an awful lot like a genuine compliment, and he wasn’t buying it. Lannister rolled his eyes.

‘Well, an attempt was made. Now, to bed with you. And Clegane?’

‘What?’

‘She’s a sweet girl,’ said Lannister. ‘Don’t mess this up.’

*

He took her flying.

It was a bright day, the warmth of the summer still lingering. The castle grounds were more populous than he would have liked, but at least once they were in the air nobody would overhear whatever humiliating things he was bound to end up saying to her. Due to the overwhelming volume of homework Hogwarts deemed necessary, they had barely seen each other since they had kissed. Every night in bed Sandor had managed to convince himself it had all been some elaborate joke, losing hours of sleep in impotent, self-loathing rage… and then he would see her at breakfast.

She would smile at him from the Ravenclaw table, blushing so prettily he was desperate to drag her off to a broom cupboard and kiss her senseless. On Friday morning she had gleefully waved her wand at him, and he had looked down at his plate to see his fry-up rearrange itself into the shape of a heart. Sansa, convulsing with silent giggles, must have assumed it would appal him, and on one level it did, but he couldn’t account for the way his chest squeezed tight with emotion.

When she came to meet him by the broomstick shed, she gently pulled him towards her so she could kiss him on the cheek, and he snatched her around the waist, turning his head to kiss her properly. By the time they pulled apart, several people were staring.

‘What?’ he snarled, and most of them scuttled away. Sandor paused, remembering that he should probably tone down the shouting a bit. There was no way Sansa would still want to be his girlfriend when she experienced the full extent of his personality. He glanced at her somewhat guiltily. She was trying to look at him with reproach, he could see, but her eyes were laughing.

‘Grumpy,’ she said. ‘I would have thought a bit of kissing might cheer you up.’  

‘Obviously haven’t done it enough,’ he said, stroking the hair that cascaded down her back. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t have been staring, should they?’

‘Not everybody is as well-mannered as you.’

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. She was funny. It had never even occurred to him that she could be, since he had been fixated enough upon her sweetness. But as well as being pretty and clever and kind, she was witty and confident, and, until she came to her senses, she was his girlfriend.

Fucking hell, he was toast.

‘Where’s your broom?’ he asked her. ‘Unless you meant _take you flying_ as a figure of speech.’

Sansa gasped and lightly smacked him on the chest, giggling. ‘I most certainly did not!’

‘Pity.’

‘And I don’t have a broom,’ she informed him, sparkling with amusement at the way they were teasing each other. ‘I’m a _lady_. Ladies can’t possibly be expected to fly themselves. It’s uncouth.’

‘I’m uncouth,’ Sandor pointed out.

‘I know,’ said Sansa. She looked at him demurely through her eyelashes, and he came dangerously close to chucking her over his shoulder and making for his dormitory.

‘You coming on my broom, then?’ he said, his voice sounding scratchy and low.

‘Yes. Just like you said on our first date.’

‘First – what?’ Sandor squinted at her. ‘What are you on with?’

‘When we went to Hogsmeade together,’ she said. ‘Remember? I know you do. You’ve never gone with any other girl.’

‘Bloody hell, all right,’ said Sandor. ‘But that wasn’t a… wait, was that a _date_?’

‘Of course! What did you think it was?’

‘Well... politeness, mostly.’

Sansa had that look on her face, the one that seemed to see under his skin and take a detailed inventory of every miserable part of him in an instant. ‘That’s why you didn’t kiss me,’ she said slowly.

‘Didn’t think you’d want me to,’ he muttered. ‘Why would you?’

‘Sandor,’ Sansa cupped his burned cheek and gazed at him, her wide blue eyes painfully earnest. ‘I’ve liked you since my first year.’

He goggled at her. All this time, longing for a chance with her. Laying awake at night imagining her, pretending his big ugly hands were hers. Attempt after attempt to transfigure his face, the scars always bleeding through, and the whole futile thing inevitably ending with him smashing the mirror again after it made an arsey comment. He had dwelt on their trip to Hogsmeade endlessly, wishing it could have been more than her pity and gratitude, that it could have been what he wanted. And now she had spoken a few quiet words, as though casting her own secret spell, and the past four years had been transformed.

His mouth opened but no sound would come. It all sounded like a lie, but it was Sansa – she would never. Before he was overwhelmed completely, Sandor mounted his broom, snatched her into his lap, and pushed away from the ground. They rose higher and higher into the air, over the forest and the lake and the castle, Sansa laughing with delight. Sandor held her close and buried his face in her hair. She liked him. She had always liked him. It hardly felt real.

Down on the ground, he could see the small figure of a girl, mounting a broom while gesticulating furiously up at them. He snorted. Arya Stark could hit him with as many hexes as she liked. He’d even put his wand in his pocket, stand still in front of her and let her have at it.

She might as well get it out of her system. If his luck held out, she’d have to put up with him for a while.


End file.
